Good Riddance
by Celtic Mysteria
Summary: A tragic accident, that's what they all said. But Nellie Lovett knew better. One-shot. Rated T for minor sexual references.


She was slender as a willow reed, with hair that cascaded down her back like golden silk. Her eyes, the most beautiful deep brown, were nestled into the peaches-and-cream complexion of her perfect heart shaped face. Her lips were pink, just like the carnation that was pinned to her hat.

Her husband was even more flawless, and despite having his back to me I knew every feature on his beautiful face. Eyes so warm as to melt your heart in an instant, a mouth made so divinely as to make every word he said music. His body was slim, his fingers long and deft, and it was with them he tickled beneath the chin of his baby daughter.

As I watched, his wife leaned forward to plant a kiss on his cheek, and he whispered in her ear, making her cheeks flush a delicate rose. She laughed, showing off her dimples, and I caught the silvery sound through my open window.

Sickening.

"Nellie?"

I turned at my name to see my own husband standing in the doorway, the complete opposite of the man who stood no further than ten yards from our window. He was fat from gorging himself on pie after pie, and his eyes were had the colour and passion of mud. He wheezed lightly: the result of the excessive flab pushing against his lungs.

"Come, my dear, you spend too much time by that window. It really isn't healthy."

So says the man who ,spends all day sat on his podgy rear in a battered old armchair, shovelling down food like a street boy.

"Why don't you finish reading that book to me?"

This was typical coming from Albert. Always expecting me to entertain him; he was completely illiterate - one more thing to add to the long list of things he couldn't do. Reading, writing, dancing, singing. He couldn't cook, build, mend.

Have children.

I despised him for that, more than anything. He could be kind and loving when he wanted to be, but never could he give me that one thing I wanted. I was nearly thirty, and completely childless. The neighbours thought it was my fault. The smug expression of Frances Mooney as she went past the shop, children clutching at her hands. Her eldest was around twenty, and expecting her own child. The youngest was five, and in between them there were four sons. The embarrassment I felt every time I had to leave my shop, alone.

"We'll keep trying, my dear." he always said to me, after the surge of disappointment I felt every month. We both knew there was no chance though - as proven by his previous wife, there was no hope of him ever giving any woman a child. His encouragement to continue attempting the impossible was from a purely selfish point of view. One more night of fun for him, one more night of disappointment for me. I'd had enough.

"I think not." I said sharply. With long, quick strides I walk to him and snatch the book from his hands, then throw it to the floor.

"Nellie! Really!" he chided. "Temper, temper!"

I ignored him, continuing out of the room. Up the couple of steps and through the door leading into the shop; I grabbed the pastry left on the counter, pounding it with my rolling pin as if it were Albert's body.

_Damn him! Impotent pile of quivering flab! _My mind screamed, although my lips remained firmly pressed together as I rolled out the dough and cut it into the correct shape.

Crafting the pie was almost therapeutic, as I carried out the practised movements. Mould it into place; now, put in the filling and cover the top - like a little lid, my mother used to say - then pinch the edges with neat little grooves. Feed the fire and shove it into the oven. Then sit back and watch. Watch it as it slowly goes golden, then brown. It darkens a little further. I should have got it out five minutes before, but something compelled me to watch it crisp and blacken until it shocked me with a flicker of fire.

I leapt into action, grabbing the long metal spatula and opening the oven. A wave of heat blasted me, so I scooped up the pie quickly and slammed the door shut before it reached out with it's amber tendrils and tickled my hair.

I quickly smothered the flames on the pie with the blanket I kept nearby in case of something like that happening. It smouldered on the table, collapsed at the centre.

A waste of food, some might say. But the incident cooled my blood, even if my skin was pink from the heat. My thoughts were more calculated, rational (if such thoughts are ever rational), and a plan began to root in my head.

Albert's old, he hadn't long left anyway. And the world is cruel - why should I have prolonged his time here, where he was so fat that he can hardly walk?

I released him.

* * *

"Albert?"

I smiled as I re-entered the room. He looked up, startled to see the cheer in my face.

"Have you calmed down, my dear? It really was a silly thing to get worked up about - if you don't want to read to me you need only say so."

"I know, love, I am so very sorry." I said, my voice dripping honey. "But I have a way to make up for it. Come with me, my love. I've something to show you."

He smiled back at me, then struggled for a moment to raise from his chair. Suppressing a shudder of disgust at his corpulent frame, I went forward and helped him up. He took my arm gratefully, and I lead him through the house.

"The basement?" he said uncertainly, as we stopped in front of the heavy wooden door.

"All will be clear soon." I replied with another saccharine smile. "Lead the way. Watch your step!"

He did, keeping his eyes on his feet. The way his head bent forward to check the steps - everything was perfectly positioned.

It was almost too easy - a small stumble, as fake as my kind expression. Instead of the handrail, my hand flew to his back. He restores my balance at the cost of his.

Poor dear - how very unfortunate that the steps were so steep, so hard, so high.

He plummeted down the fifteen stone steps, landing at the bottom with the crunch of a broken neck. There was a twitch, then absolute stillness. As if he were made of stone.

I paused for a second, just to make sure, then turned back up the steps and closed the door behind me. The bolt goes down, although there was no chance he survived.

The satisfied smile was begging to be released, and who was I to deny it? It played about my lips and spread across my entire face. It was with a wonderful sense of release that I spoke my final words to my_ beloved_ husband.

"Goodnight, my love. And good riddance."


End file.
